The Privilege of the Sword (34 page)

Artemisia shuddered. “That terrible woman, putting all those men to death. Why, is it playing again? I declare I would love to see it now, indeed I would. I understand her perfectly, now.”

“It’s not playing again, no; but the same splendid actress who was so proud and fierce in the role of the Empress, the actress they call the Black Rose…what will you think when I tell you that her company has commissioned a new play, for her to play the part of Stella!”

“You mean—” Artemisia caught her breath at the thought. “They are going to perform
The Swordsman Whose Name Was Not Death
—in a
theatre
?”

“It’s already been played! Lavinia Perry and Jane Hetley both have seen it, for Jane’s birthday.”

“And?”

“Lavinia says that Henry Sterling as Fabian is a pale and feeble joke, though Jane says she’d marry him in an instant. But Lavinia has hardly a good word to say for the piece; she’s vexed that they’ve left out the entire bit about the hunting cats, though I can hardly see how they’d play that onstage. Jane says it doesn’t matter, because Mangrove’s repentance at the end is even more affecting than it is in the book. But Lavinia thinks it is not true to the spirit of the novel.”

“I never thought he was truly penitent. It’s all a ruse, to confuse Stella to the last.”

“That’s what Jane says, too. She says you want to kill him yourself, he is so very wicked. Deliciously, she says.”

“What about Tyrian? Is he handsome?”

“Oh, as for that, it hardly signifies. They’ve got a girl playing Tyrian.”

“A girl? The same one who played the hero’s friend in
The King’s Wizard
? I bet it is. My brother Robbie was greatly taken with her. Still, a girl playing Tyrian…”

“They say her swordplay is very dashing.”

“Does she kiss Stella, though?”

“They didn’t say.”

“What, after all that time we all spent practicing kissing with Lavinia, she didn’t say? Rubbish.”

“Well, we must go, then,” Lydia said cheerfully, “and see it together and find out for ourselves.”

Artemisia drew back. “I cannot.”

“You cannot stay locked up in here forever!”

“I won’t go out; I can’t go out until I am free of this marriage.”

“I’ll tell you what, then!” Lydie tended to bounce when pleased, and she did so now. “We can sneak you out in secret. You can go masked—”

“No! No! No!” Artemisia’s hands were over her ears. Lydie drew back in alarm, but then she chided herself for a false friend. She approached Artemisia cautiously. “Dearest darling, can’t you tell me what is wrong?”

“I cannot marry him,” Artemisia repeated. “I shall never marry anyone. It is too horrible to contemplate.”

“Mi,” Lydia said delicately, “has your mama perhaps said something to you about the married state that, perhaps, might frighten you or strike you as distasteful?”

Artemisia looked wonderingly at her. Was this the same Lydia who had helped her hide
The Couch of Eros
under her last year’s hats? But she only said, “Mama speaks much of gowns and jewels and houses in the country. And,” she added meanly, “of how marrying Lord Ferris means I should take precedence over you, no matter who you marry.”

Lydia drew back. “Does she?”

“I hate her!” Artemisia exploded. “I hate her, I hate you all!”

To her eternal credit, Lydia Godwin weathered the storm. Indeed, she brought her friend nearly all the handkerchiefs in her box, one by one, saying cheerfully, “I shall have to speak to Dorrie about keeping your box well filled.”

“Robbie says I am a watering-pot. I hate him, too.”

“Robbie is often hateful. But I hope you know I would never do anything to injure you, my darling.”

More tears, then, and vows of eternal friendship. And in that sweet moment, Artemisia thought of something. “Lydia,” she said, “do you remember when Stella is in the country and Mangrove’s minions are all around her and she doesn’t know who to trust? And she needs to get a message to Fabian that would kill him if it goes awry? Well, there is a letter I need you to carry for me—just carry it out of the house, no more, and give it to someone to deliver.”

Lydia’s eyes opened wide. “Artemisia Fitz-Levi,” she said, “do you have a
lover
?”

“Don’t be disgusting, Lydia. What would I do with a lover? No, it’s just a friend. But don’t you understand? I’m a prisoner here. They guard me from all visitors but you, my darling, and of course they read my mail. I’m running out of things to bribe Dorrie with—I need you to do this!”

“I see….” Lydia twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “Give me the letter.”

“Here.” Artemisia lifted up one corner of her pink-flowered rug. “The maids only sweep under it once a week, lazy things.”

It was addressed to
KT, Riverside House
. Lydia tucked it in her apron pocket, and Artemisia gripped both her hands, staring into her face with a desperate fury not unlike that of the Empress when ordering her favorite to the sword. “Now swear!” she said. “Swear by your precious love for Lindley that you will tell no one. Not your mama, not your papa, not even him who your soul adores. No one. If you will do this for me, Lydia, then someday I will dance at your wedding, though I can never hope myself for such joy as you possess.”

S
OMETIMES AT BREAKFAST, IF SHE KEPT QUIET ENOUGH,
Lydia’s parents would forget that she was there. It was one reason she did not often breakfast in her room. She ate her toast very slowly, and listened to her mother telling her father, “Tremontaine is at it again. Dora Nevilleson told me her husband told her his valet saw him at the Rogues’ Ball. Of course you know Nevilleson was there himself and just won’t own up to it. The number of valets who were there, it must have been a convocation of nothing but gentlemen with clothes brushes, to hear the husbands tell of it.”

“Funny.” Lydia’s father, Michael, Lord Godwin, buttered a piece of toast and sat watching the butter melt into the crispy bread. He was very particular about his toast. “My own valet did not attend. Or if he did, he’s not saying.”

“Good,” said his wife. “Then you know nothing about this putative niece? The girl with the sword, who fought Todd Rippington there?”

“Of course I’ve heard about the niece, Rosamund, what do you take me for? I’m the Raven Chancellor. If the Duke Tremontaine has trained up some girl with a sword, and she’s a relative, and she’s begun to fight duels, it’s going to come up before the Council of Honor sooner or later. It’s our business to know. We don’t want to look too alarmed when it does.”

“Why should that alarm you?”

“The privilege of the sword is one of the rights of the nobility. The privilege only, and not the sword itself. That, we leave to professionals.”

She touched his hand. “I know one noble who did things differently, once.”

From the way Godwin returned his lady’s look, Lydia was afraid her parents were going to head right upstairs for one of their little talks, leaving breakfast unfinished and her curiosity unsatisfied. But Michael Godwin just said, “That man took up both blade and privilege only once, and for a very worthy prize.”

Was this the notorious duel her father had fought over her mother? She held her breath, waiting for details. But even her silence was too loud. Her mother returned to the debate.

“So,” Rosamund persisted, “a young noblewoman with a blade who could fight for herself if she chose is very different from that young man?”

“Possibly.” Lord Godwin sighed. “You have no idea what a muddle the rules and traditions of the Court of Honor is. Does the privilege even extend to women, or does it merely derive from their male relatives? There are precedents for one, and for the other, case by case and year by year, as the members change by fate and election. The dukes and Arlen have the only permanent seats, which is supposed to give it all some stability—and you’ll know what that means when I remind you that the Duke Tremontaine is one of them!” His lady nodded wryly. “‘Honor’ appears to be a maze of unwritten rules and fiercely defended traditions. In the end, what is this girl? What’s her legal status, and even her social one? Does she pass back and forth from noble to sword at a whim? And if so, whose whim?”

“Her uncle’s, I imagine. Unless she kills him first.”

“She can’t kill him. Not in honorable challenge, anyway; the Court permits no one to profit from challenge within their own family. If she kills, she does it on his behalf.”

“Or her own.”

“It’s all pretty alarming.”

“I see. And what will you noble lords do about it now?”

“We watch and wait.”

“I cannot like it, Michael. If this truly is his sister Talbert’s child, then it’s disgraceful for the duke to be encouraging her to run wild like that. A noble’s daughter should be gently raised and properly cared for. Someone should do something.”

“Tremontaine is the head of the family, and the family has not complained—not in Council, anyway, where it might do some good. I hear Greg Talbert’s locked himself up with a serious head cold rather than answer any questions.”

“She’s only a girl, they say, no older than Lydia here.”

“Well, sometimes I do wonder,” Michael Godwin said, “if I should not have taught Lydia the sword. I won’t always be around, you know, and if that goatish Lindley tries anything once they’re wed…”

“Oh, Papa!” It hadn’t been funny the first time, and had grown less so with every repetition since.

Her mother rushed in to the rescue, asking “How is your friend Artemisia, Lydie? I heard she was ill. Did you visit her yesterday?”

Her mother was so sensible and kind, not at all like Lady Fitz-Levi. It wouldn’t be breaking her word to her friend to tell her mother how unhappy Mia was. “She’s not so much ill as heartsick, Mama. She does not want to marry Lord Ferris at all, and they are going to
force
her. She weeps and weeps and will not eat, and is truly pitiful. Oh, is there nothing we can do?”

Her mother, who had ample experience of young Lady Artemisia’s temperament, said cautiously, “Do you know what made her change her mind about her intended, dearest?”

“She will not say. But she is wretched, Mama. I’ve never seen her so distraught—well, almost never. Not for so long, anyway.”

Her father gave her mother a look across the table. “My word on it,” he said, “she’s found out about the Black Rose.”

“Michael,” Lady Godwin warned, “perhaps this is not the time….”

“Rosamund, I think it is very much the time, with Lydie about to be married herself and launched into the world. I’ve been meaning to speak to her about it, in fact.” He turned to his only daughter. “Lydia, dearest, what do you know about women who…Lydia. Let me begin again.” Lady Godwin sighed audibly, but did not offer her husband assistance. “Men, as you know, have certain interests in life, and these interests sometimes lead them to do foolish things. Things their wives would not approve of. And I hope that if you see your husband doing anything foolish, you will not stand by without calling him to account for it.”

Lydia tried to look very adult and trustworthy. “You need have no fears on that account, Papa. Armand and I have vowed always to tell each other everything.”

“Just so,” said Lord Godwin. “Of course, unmarried men are allowed to be a little foolish sometimes. It gives them something to improve upon, and their wives as well. So I hope you will not be altogether surprised if you learn, someday, that one of your friends’ young husbands before his marriage was, ah, friendly with certain women of the town, hostesses and actresses and such, and became their protector. Most men, in fact, have such a past.”

“But never their wives?”

“Oh, never the wives.” Eyes downcast, her mother smiled. “Women have no past, just a grand and glorious future.”

Lydia kept her face schooled to look as if all this was news to her. “The Black Rose is an actress,” she said helpfully. “Is Lord Ferris her protector?”

“Was,” said Michael Godwin. “She’s a magnificent piece, just the sort of high-ticket, high-profile item Ferris goes for, and he went for her. It wasn’t easy, either. The Rose is very picky. Easily bored, she says, and considering how many ‘protectors’ she’s turned away, it must be true. But he likes a bit of a challenge, does our Crescent.”

“Michael.” His wife’s voice carried a hint of steel.

“Just common knowledge,” he added doucely. “It didn’t last long, though. They had a bit of a row.”

“A bit?” her mother said with relish. “I heard he had her thrown out of his house in the middle of the night like a common thing, with only the shift on her back.”

Lydia gasped. “If Artemisia did something he disliked, would he have her thrown out in the snow, too? No wonder she doesn’t want to marry him!”

“Certainly not, darling. No nobleman would dare to treat his wife that way. It would get back to her parents and her brother, and he would pay dearly for it. No, don’t worry, it’s surely not anything like that.”

“Think about it, Lydie,” her father said. “Your friend has a great deal of pride. She heard about the affair, and she wants to make him sorry. You must admit, she always does like to have the upper hand.”